


The Picture

by Bnig98JR



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Eyes, Horror, Original Fiction, Other, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 17:09:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bnig98JR/pseuds/Bnig98JR
Summary: I originally wrote this for my English exam, so it’s not entirely accurate compared to the original lmaoQ: Write a short story titled ‘The Picture’.





	The Picture

I remember when we first moved into the house.   
My father had bought a Victorian mansion that was on sale, at a reasonable price too, so there was no concern that the house would have a history of bad luck, and it even came with antique furniture that was restored prior to being put on sale.

My childhood was filled with memories of spending hours on my own in the afternoons, roaming the endless hallways, pretending I was an explorer in a lost jungle. I was perfectly capable of entertaining myself, even though my parents were barely around, stuck in the office until late at night. I was just a child of eight back then, new to the neighbourhood with barely anyone my age around.

But what I remember most was the attic. And no, it wasn’t the dark and drafty type of attic you’d typically see in horror movies. The side of the attic facing the east was almost entirely made of glass, as a matter of fact, which meant the room was well lit by sunlight alone. I spent my teenage years leaning on the glass, nose deep in a book or examining the yellowed pages of the books that were left in the attic.

When we first moved in, my parents cleared out most of the junk that the previous owners had shoved into the room and forgotten about, including a rusted high-bicycle, a broken telescope, several outdated encyclopedias, and more items that had faded and crumbled away with time. They left the piles of paintings, covered with a thick sheet of canvas, untouched. An ancient camera and the polaroids it created were also the only survivors of the attic clean-out.

That very afternoon, in the midst of clearing the attic, my mom opened the box that held those monochrome pictures. Funnily enough, my mom was talking about how strange it was for a box full of photographs to have so many locks on it, though most of the locks could no longer serve their purpose, and fell apart as soon as they were touched. The rest of the day was a blur to me, but the scream that came from my dad when he walked into the attic, and ran back out as if fleeing for his life, remained stuck in my mind until now. The look of absolute terror on his face was one I had only seen twice, the other time being when he had regrettably chose to sit in the very front of a rollercoaster. He never told me why he had screamed, no matter how much I pestered him.

They locked the photographs in a safe, and never opened it, leaving them to collect dust in a hall closet.

Eventually I grew up, and left the mansion, as well as the attic, behind. But even then, my curiosity for the contents of the photographs grew; it grew as I moved through university; it grew as I moved into a new house of my own; it grew as I got engaged and married; it grew, and grew, and grew. It never stopped at any moment of my life.

I couldn’t stand it anymore, and gave in to curiosity. So I went back home, to that old mansion. Back to my childhood of empty corridors and sunlight through the attic window. Back to those old, dusty pictures, locked in the safe in the hall closet.

My parents were glad to see me back at home. We talked for hours over tea, catching up with each other’s lives. It was only then did I ask my dad about that day. He nearly dropped his teacup when I did, his face paled and eyes darkened. The long silence in between as he regained his composure seemed to echo off the walls of the mansion, before being put out at once by the words that spilled from his mouth.

“Your mother was looking at those photographs when I walked into the attic. And what I saw...it-it’s still something that I can’t forget. Those eyes...they sprouted from the walls as soon as I walked in, they were—looking in every direction, at your mom, at me. Then they started to appear—all over— her arms, her face. Everywhere. Of course I yelled and got out as fast as I could, and as soon as I did, the eyes disappeared.”

A shaky hand reached over to pour another cup, but it spilled over into the saucer.

“But over the next few days—you probably have forgotten already—you would wake us up every night and claim you were being watched by someone. We would also feel uneasy when inside the house.Your mother and I were convinced that was why the box was locked in the first place, and we were right, as soon as we locked the box in the safe, the feeling of being watched was gone, and you slept soundly for the first time in weeks.”

He paused to take a sip of his tea.

“You know, kid. Your mom and I never talked about those photos after you left until today. We just...forgot about them, and you should too.”

I nodded, but only a part of my curiosity had been relieved. I wanted to know more, and how I regretted that decision.

As they say, ‘curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back’. But there was no going back.

That night, I broke into the safe with the skills I had been taught while I was in university. It was so easy, the safe being the older, less secure kind, meant for keeping curious hands off its contents, but not for preventing burglary.

There it was. That musty, wooden box with rusted locks. The one that held the answer to all my questions.

I opened the box. And there they were, the pile of photos, face down against the bottom, as if to protect whoever that opened the box from its contents.

The hand that held the flashlight shook with anticipation as I gingerly lifted the photo on the top from the pile, inspecting the back that read “17th September, 1872”. And then, ever so slowly, I turned it over.

I really shouldn't have.

Those men in the picture. There were so many eyes, and all in the wrong places. On their faces, their arms, their neck. Those disgusting eyes that were staring at the camera, at me.

Then they started to sprout from the walls. Eyes littered the walls, the ceiling, the floorboards. Everywhere. Unblinking. The pupils rolled around grotesquely in their sockets. Then their gaze settled on me. A deer in headlights. I was trapped in their gaze, rooted in place by the malice in those eyes. The moment seemed to last for hours, but I blinked again, and they disappeared.

Was it just a fear-fueled hallucination? I did not know. But I _do_ know that I burned those photographs, along with their box immediately. I made sure the only thing left was a pile of smoking ash by the time I was finished.

I went to bed at ease that night, although a funny looking mark appeared on my arm. It itches as I write this, but it’s probably just a scratch from opening the box.

\-----

The man closed the laptop and pulled the covered over himself, smiling as he fell asleep.

The mark on his arm blinked, and opened. An eye darted around the room, its predatory gaze going unnoticed by anyone. It seemed to break into a grin.

It would have company soon. 


End file.
